In One Word
by marinoa
Summary: Sometimes, one word can contain a story. A collection of drabbles, also known as the FrUK Drabble Thing.
1. Marianne

_Author's note:_ So, this is a collection of little FrUK drabbles. I asked people on tumbrl to send me one word in a message, and I would write a drabble based on the word. This is the result. I have fun with these, I hope you enjoy as well! :)

**Marianne**

Arthur isn't a particularly big fan of Shakespeare. Sure, he appreciates his plays if he happens to see one, and the man's poetry is admittedly good. But Arthur isn't an exceptionally poetic person and prefers thinking in sensible down-to-earth manner. That is why it's strange in every aspect that, whenever he sees Marianne, his mind quits functioning in normal way and begins to think in sonnets.

He hardly ever even speaks to her. Truth be told, he hardy ever even sees her. But there are days when she enters his bookshop, alone, or occasionally with her friends, and languidly walks among the bookshelves, her finger sliding over book covers and eyes skipping over titles and authors and, sometimes, Arthur.

He hates it when it happens, because it means that she catches him staring, that his breath gets stuck in his throat, that he blinks his eyes only to find that her summer-sky eyes have already moved on to something more interesting than the quiet, dull shopkeeper.

Arthur isn't a shakespeare. He hasn't got the talent to charm with words or winks or smiles. And so all that is left to him is watching, dreading and hoping to receive one more glance from her, and thinking in sonnets.

_O! Learn to read what silent love hath writ:_

_To hear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit._

X


	2. Prohibition

**Prohibition**

It is a rainy day in mid-June in nineteen twenty-two when France sits down on England's bed and watches with great amusement how the Englishman stomps about his room, picking up the shirts and ties and socks that he was throwing around mere minutes earlier. France very nearly winces when England kicks his now empty suitcase open and drops the collected items in it without bothering folding them first. How very typical of him; France is well aware that this is England's passive-aggressive way of showing that he doesn't give a damn about Alfred's celebration and accepts the invitation only because he absolutely has to in the name of international politics.

"England dear," says France, because in his opinion, it is time to add some oil in the flames. "Are you sure you want to be taking that hideous yellow shirt with you? Surely you want to be at your best in America's biggest party of the year."

The enraged glare that England rewards France with is absolutely delightful. "Shut the fuck up, you," he growls.

"Now, no need to be so rude," France says smugly. England rolls his eyes, proceeding to his favourite game – ignoring France – and turns his back on him. France continues smirking, because he knows that even without looking, England _knows _what he's doing and that it drives him inwardly up the wall. The smirk, however, slips off France's lips when he notices England taking something from the depths of his wardrobe and casually wrapping the something in another hideous shirt, this time brown. It is all so casual that France's interest is instantly awakened.

"Oh?" he says. "What was that?"

"Nothing," says England, the personification of casualty, and drops the bundle in his suitcase.

"Fine." France shrugs. "Keep your secrets."

Naturally, the very next convenient moment when England turns his back to France again, the Frenchman leaps from his spot on the bed and dives for the suitcase. It is clear from the speed of England's reaction that he was expecting an attack, but, this time, the power of determined curiosity is stronger, and France retreats victoriously back of the bed with a brown bundle in his arms. England is quick to jump after him, but it's too late; France unwraps the cloth and finds a…

"_Don't. Fucking. Dare_," England hisses at him when France bursts into laughter, clutching a full bottle of whiskey in his arms. "France. _Shut up_."

But France doesn't. He laughs until England punches him in the cheek, then laughs more even though it actually hurts. He finishes laughing only when England manages to wring the bottle out of his grasp and hit him with it, too.

"England," he manages to utter without collapsing in another fit of mirth. "Getting drunk for America's special day? Really?"

"How else am I to endure his follies and stupid independence celebration?" England snaps at him, wrapping the bottle with the brown shirt again (perhaps his poor choice of clothes is another show of passive-aggressive protest).

"Oh, but you must be aware of America's wildest invention so far?" France asks, referring to the prohibition law in the United States.

"Of course I am," England snorts.

"Don't you think it's a bit provocative to break his laws in his independence celebration?" France asks, lifting his eyebrow.

"Don't you think it was a bit provocative of _him _to toss my tea in the sea and start a revolt?"

France lets out a slow whistle. "My, you _are _an unforgiving one."

England glares at him, then coughs in his palm something that sounds suspiciously like 'Joan of Arc', and it is France's turn to glare.

"Besides," England continues, "he only invited us of necessity."

"You, perhaps."

"Oh, shut it, frog."

France does, mostly because he is in a good mood and too relaxed to banter further. England returns to the task of packing, and the Frenchman observes him, absently humming something under his breath. Then he stands up from the bed and says, "As a matter of fact, you might have a point, after all. Albeit a very small one," he quickly adds when England throws an astonished look at him. France flashes him a smile. "A celebration doesn't feel like celebration if it's not enjoyed with a glass of fine wine."

England arcs his brows. "Hypocrite."

France blows him a kiss which is dodged by an unimpressed stare. "We are same as ever, love."

X


	3. Blind

**Blind**

"Go away! You are _wrong_!"

France steps back, hurt, and glares at the little nation before him. England glares right back at him, but France can see that his lower lip is wobbling a little. He frowns in frustration – he just doesn't understand what he said wrong this time.

"What am I wrong about?" he demands, because, honestly, this new little nation is so difficult to handle and even more difficult to understand.

England visibly contemplates whether to take the question as sincere and give a proper answer, or to take it as an insult and answer accordingly. France sees how the boy's little hands curl into fists, and, just as he expects England to lunge at him, the younger nation says, "My – my friends."

"You mean the imaginary ones?" France asks to clarify, but, apparently, simply repeats his earlier mistake as England grabs a cone and hurls it at him. And France still doesn't know what it is he said wrong!

"Idiot!" England shouts, tears surging in his eyes. "You are just blind if you don't see them! Or then you say that because you're mean and always want to bully me like everybody else! Go away!" He fills his little fists with cones and throws them all at once at the baffled France.

Most of them miss, but two cones hit France on the head. It hurts, and France pouts angrily. "Fine!"

Like so many times before, they go their separate ways; England runs for the safety of his forests and France returns to his own home across the channel. Before stepping on the boat that will take him home, he turns to look one more time in the direction where England ran. "If you think that I want to bully you, it's _you_ who is blind," he mutters.

The garland of flowers that he had made just for England ends up crumpled and tossed in sea.

X


	4. Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious

**Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious **

A late night. A bottle of red. Two men, and a bet between them.

"Come on, _Angleterre_, are you even trying?"

"Shut up, you are disturbing me!"

"Very well. You get one last try, and if you fail, this round is mine."

A deep breath. "__Un____chasseur____sach___\- __fuck__ –___sachant____chas___\- ___chasser___-_"

"Ah, looks like that's a point for me, hm?"

"Laugh all you want, but it's my turn to give a phrase. I'll give you... let's see..."

A sip of wine. "Think carefully, love, otherwise I win."

"Ha!" A satisfied smirk, a gleam in eyes. "Now listen, frog: you get _Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious_."

"Bless you."

An even wider smirk. "Funny. But not as funny as you soon trying to pronounce this."

"That's not even a real phrase."

"Oh, yes it is. And, France? Remember your own rule: if you say it too slowly, it's not a point."

"England, I swear -"

"If I were you, I'd swear less and focus more. You've got three tries."

A glare. "This will come right back at you, keep that in mind."

"Was that a try already?"

"Fine." A sip to loosen the tongue. "Supercalifag-"

Triumphal laughter. "Wrong!"

"_Merde.._. Supercaligraficept- fragi..."

"One more try, dear."

"Wipe that Cheshire grin from your lips before I do it myself. Here: Supercalifragilicepxia- _Putain_! That's a meaningless mess of sounds and doesn't even mean anything!"

"Oh, it does mean something."

"What?"

A slow, self-satisfied smile. "I won."

"Oh, you little -"

"France!"

"I warned you about that grin, didn't I?"

"You – _mmf_!"

A late night, a fallen bottle – and two men, with nothing between them.

X


	5. Confession

**Confession**

As soon as Francis Bonnefoy was old enough to understand what the word 'love' meant (more or less), he knew that, come time, the moment of his confession would be special. And, as it would not do to be unprepared when that moment comes, he began composing plans.

His earliest plans were simple: he would confess to his love by giving them a red heart-shaped lollipop and a smooch on the lips. Later, however, he understood that lollipops are for kids and real men showered their chosen ones with flowers (preferably roses, naturally), sweet promises and poetry under a silver moon. Soon a fancy restaurant was added to the list, followed by romantic midnight moments on top of the Eiffel Tower, where Francis would finally declare his feelings in smooth, refined words. His love – a tanned, well-built man from southern France or a gorgeous lady from Paris – would touch his face and they would share the most earth-shattering kiss in human history.

Eventually Francis, in his mid-twenties, grew out of such theatrical plans and his taste became more simple and more discreet. That said, you might easily understand that how Francis _didn't_ imagine confessing his love, however, was while throwing up in agony while the object of his feelings stood beside him, trying to decide whether Francis was making fun of him or if he was really ill.

To make the long story short, nothing, absolutely nothing went as in any plans Francis had ever made. First of all, life took him to England for studies, and so it happened that he found himself in no hurry to return to France. Second, approximately nothing of what Francis had ever planned or considered romantic came true when he realised he was falling in love. Eiffel Tower and French lovers were out of question in England (no self-respecting French person would stay in England more than necessary, and really, what was Francis even _doing_?), there were no roses involved, no romantic whispers, no significant looks, nothing. What there _was_, instead, was Arthur Kirkland, a pale, sharp-tongued stick-in-the-ass Englishman, who found his pleasure in constantly disagreeing with Francis and making his life altogether as miserable as possible. And that, as twisted fate would have it, was the man for whom Francis found himself falling.

He hadn't planned any confessions with Arthur. Well, he had, but not seriously, not with the intention of carrying them out, because none of his romantic schemes seemed quite right with Arthur. But it happened that one evening Francis was at Arthur's place, and Arthur offered him his home-made scones with such pride and barely noticeable adorable shyness that Francis simply had to take one, even though he _knew_ that Arthur couldn't cook anything to save his life. It also happened that, consequently, Francis ended up doubled on the floor as his stomach twisted and turned, throwing up on the living-room carpet because he didn't make it to bathroom on time. Later it appeared that Arthur had used some ingredients that _do not_ belong in scones, but, at the moment, the stupid Englishman dared even assume that Francis, _Francis!_, was taking a stupid joke too far and threw up just to insult him. Fortunately Arthur soon realised that Francis couldn't possibly be such a great actor and helped him to the bathroom.

"I _knew_ something like this would happen," Francis moaned between painful gags.

"Then why did you fucking eat it?" Arthur, frustrated and worried and angry at who knows whom, snapped, holding Francis hair back and rubbing his back without even realising doing so.

"Because I love you, that's why," Francis retorted and threw up again.

Granted, that is not the most romantic way to confess one's love to someone. In fact, the whole situation was utterly disgusting and not beautiful in any way. But Arthur knelt beside Francis by the toilet and stayed with him the entire time, holding his hair and rubbing his back until nothing came out any more, and afterwords, when they had cleaned up and Francis plopped down on the sofa, exhausted, Arthur, blushing furiously, snuggled in his side. And Francis laughed at all his previous romantic imaginations, because this – _this_ was perfection.

X


	6. Candlelight

**Candlelight**

The dark alley was dangerous and filthy, yet exciting and mysterious at the same time. Dancing shadows in nearly complete blackness of the night, little lanterns hanging from people's homes to give at least some light to late travellers, the anxiety to find the right door among all the others...

France answered the knock on his door so quickly that he had probably been waiting with his ear against it. He let England in wordlessly, locking the door immediately after the Englishman. The room was dark, there were only three little candles offering their flickering light in the room, but that was just enough light for England to turn his eyes on France, to study him in the dim chase of light and shadow, to marvel how the absence of brightness revealed much more than the presence of it.

France turned to face him, and England found himself utterly mesmerised by the way his dark blue eyes caught the flickering flames, how they burned on his skin. Shadows played upon France's face, deepening his eyes, highlighting his cheekbones, darkening his lips, and England swallowed dryly at the sight of his neck, at the way shadows followed the movement of France's Adam's apple when he swallowed. Scarce as the light was, France's hair seemed to reflect it so that the whole room felt that much brighter.

France let him watch, but then he shifted, and light and shadow instantly engaged in new patterns of dance, drawing out new lines on his face, hiding something and bringing out something else. In that particular light, in the light of those three candles, France looked gorgeous, a masterpiece painted by the night, warm colours and dark secrets. England longed to see all of him, longed to see what kind of lines light would draw on the muscles of his chest, what kind of patterns shadows would paint on his firm calves, longed to follow those lines with his eyes, his fingers, his lips.

Later, when two flames of the three had died and only one was still hanging on, England placed a ghost of a kiss on France's shoulder. France didn't wake, but he sighed in his sleep, and England saw how little droplets of sweat on his arm captured the last of the fading light, absorbing it so that for one brief moment, France seemed to be covered in diamonds.

Then the flame of the last candle faded away and complete darkness swallowed them both. England kissed France's shoulder one more time to taste the salt of his skin, laid his head on a pillow, and dreamt.

X


	7. Moomin

**Moomin**

"France," England said, "France."

He didn't utter anything else, because what more can you say when you come home – where, mind you, you live _alone_ – and find someone hopping around in a Barbapapa costume in your living-room, attempting with poor success to fasten the head part of the costume to the body and knocking down your coffee table in the process? Trust me, you'd be left quite speechless, too.

"Oh, England, is that you?" France's muffled voice fought its way through the costume.

"Of course it's me, this is_ my sodding house_, something that _you_ might have forgotten. France – oh, _bollocks_, France, what the hell is this?" And though England found it exceedingly vexing that France had broken into his home once again, he also found it extremely hard not to laugh when a grown man – a former empire, for heaven's sake – strutted around the room fighting a bloody Barbapapa costume of all things.

France continued his struggle for a little while longer, cursing in French under his breath, but finally tossed the costume head on floor. His face was all flushed and his hair satisfyingly dishevelled after his vain efforts, and England even spotted little droplets of sweat on his forehead. "You are a mess," he declared the obvious, oddly endeared by the picture before him.

"Thank you," Francis answered in a royal tone, then added dryly, "And thank you for your help, I truly appreciated it."

England walked past him to put the poor coffee table upright again. "You're welcome. Now, why in the name of the Queen are you in my home?"

France leered. "Well, you said I'm welcomed."

England didn't bother answering that.

"Anyway," France continued, not at all fazed by his infamous death glare, "You must remember that Finland's party is next week. Unless you weren't invited, of course, which, by the way, I would understand perfectly well, taking your insufferable and quite grumpy nature into account – ow, you'll ruin my costume!"

"I remember the party, and I was invited, thank you very much," England snarled, letting go of France's neck. "That doesn't explain why you're here. In this ridiculous costume."

France rubbed at his abused neck. "The theme of the party is the Moomins, remember? We must all dress accordingly. Or are you so uncultured that you don't even know the Moomins?"

England stared at France, unimpressed, then moved his eyes to the Barbapapa costume. "France, I don't know how to break this to you, but your Barbapapas and the Moomins are not the same thing."

"And that's why I'm here."

England lifted one of his eyebrows.

"You see, I have this Barbapapa costume, and as Moomins and Barbapapas are not so different in shape, I thought that with some skilled needlework this -" France pats the belly of his costume, "would make an excellent Moomin costume."

England crossed his arms. "So, what do I have to do with it?" The part with 'skilled needlework' had not escaped him, and he was smart enough to see where it was going, but he clung to the last string of hope that he was wrong and that France was not going to ask _him_ to transform a bloody Barbapapa into a Moomin.

But England's hope was in vain; France gave him the eyes. "Why, of course I wouldn't entrust anyone else with such a task," he said, turning to face England from an angle where the light reflected in his eyes the best. "No one else could do it as well as you."

England rolled his eyes. "So, suddenly my 'silly stitching hobby' is 'skilled needlework'. How convenient that you should understand my skills only when you happen to benefit from them."

"I have been wrong," France said meekly.

"Not happening," England uttered. "Take your costume and take your leave. And don't forget the head."

France heaved a sigh, defeated. "Fine." He began stripping off his costume. "I should have known that this would be too big a challenge for you."

England's brow twitched. "Excuse me?"

"It was wrong of me to ask this from you," the Frenchman admitted condescendingly. "It would be a difficult task to say the least, and expecting you to have enough skill to do it wasn't very tactful of me. I'm sorry."

Oh, England saw, he _saw_ what France was doing, but to hell with it all, _no one_ would doubt his skills, least of all that pompous wanker from the other side of the Channel! He outstretches his hand. "Hand me the costume."

Later, when England was fully absorbed in measuring textiles, France sneaked behind him and draped his arms around his shoulders (capturing in this way England's arms and thus preventing the punch he would have received otherwise).

"What the- Get off me, France."

Instead of complying, the frog brought his lips to brush England's ear and whispered, "When I said earlier that I was wrong, I actually meant it."

England tried to shrug him off, not really managing to ignore the not entirely unpleasant warmth of the Frenchman. "What are you going on about?"

"Your needlework. I hadn't truly realised how challenging it is before I tried fixing the costume by myself at first. I must admit that you indeed have quite high skills in this field, England."

"Oh." England cleared his throat, suddenly very still and very much _not_ blushing. "Er, well. Thanks. Flatterer."

France laughed softly. "You love it, don't you?" Before England could compose a reply or drive the man off his personal space, he continued, "Listen, I got an excellent idea. You haven't yet a costume of your own, right? So," His arms tighten around England's torso. "How about we share mine? It's easily spacey enough for two, especially if we stay close to one another..."

At this point, normally, England would have elbowed France in the ribs, or perhaps in the diaphragm as it is more effective. However, as it happened, his arms were captured by France's, so there really wasn't much he could do to, was there? "Sod off," he only muttered half-heartedly.

"You know, England," France whispered in his ear, "If you let me stay tonight, _I could be a Moomin in your valley._"

France did stay over that night, but in a guest room, and only because England was kind enough not to throw a man with concussion out in the rain.

X


	8. Melancholy

**Melancholy**

"Why do people fall in love?"

_It's funny,_ England thinks, _that_ _no matter how many years, how many decades, how many centuries pass, people still ask the same stale questions._

England remembers a thousand instances of himself falling. For instance, when he was yet a tiny foolish nation and fell from a horse, because his pride couldn't bear practising on a pony first. Or when he, a little older, fell down the stairs in the Tower, because an execution was about to happen and he was desperate to prevent it. Or when he, a thousand-year-old nation, fell face first on the pavement only a couple of days earlier because he stumbled on his own shoelaces.

Or when, at some point along the years, or perhaps at many points, or at no points at all, he fell for France.

_Why do people fall in love? _England snorts.Why do people keep repeating the same question over and over again? Can't they see that the answer is obvious?

"Because falling hurts."

X


	9. Unhealthy

**Unhealthy**

_How far are you prepared to go to drive your enemy out of their mind?_

If the effort to to annoy an enemy could be measured in steps, France would have walked a long way in the course of a thousand years. There was hardly anything that he hadn't tried to initiate that little push which would throw England's sanity over the edge; he had waged wars against him, teased hi, argued with him, mocked him. Bedded him, allied with his enemies. Constantly reminded him of the superiority of French culture, language, cuisine. Ignored him. Hell, he had even conquered him once in their early past. And yet, it wasn't enough. England had always been able to counter in one way or another. If France triumphed in driving England mad, so did England revel in in the times he had done the same to France.

France wanted to get under England's skin, itch viciously where England couldn't quite reach to scratch. France wanted to be a thorn in his side, a tiny yet highly disturbing rock in his shoe, a voice in his head – there, always there, unreachable and tormenting. He wanted to see England's poisonous green eyes burn in seething rage whenever he saw France... which would be often, very often, with the political atmosphere being what it was. Seeing England crawling out of his skin was France's ultimate desire, his _only_ desire these days, and now, after a millennium of mutual disdain and frustration, he had found the means to thoroughly get to England. And this, this the little Englishman could never be able to counter. (Ironically, this weapon was handed to France – indirectly – by one of England's own authors; France had always known that he hadn't let the lad live in Paris for nothing.)

France was going to forgive England.

There were very few things in the world more maddening that a forgiving enemy, especially for a feisty character like England's. Forgiveness was not what he needed, least of all from France. What he needed was blood, an enemy who would strike him back, not turn the other cheek.

Of course, forgiveness was something that would be almost as trying for France as it would for England. In any other situation France would rather have his nails torn out than even entertaining an idea of forgiving England, but everything else had been tried already and his obsession with sending his nemesis over the edge grew stronger with every passing day – there was little else occupying France's thoughts in the long hours of the day, and England's face, twisted in purest fury and delightful hatred, kept his company at nights.

Yes, forgiving England would be trying to France... but it all would be worth it when he'd see England _burn_.

This twisted, toxic passion for England was what France had been feeding on for the past thousand years, and the knowledge that England felt the same tasted like a sweet dessert in his mouth. An unhealthy relationship in every other person's mind, but France laughed at such opinion out loud – it was this unhealthy passion that made France _thrive_.

X

_Always forgive your enemies; nothing annoys them so much._

_\- Oscar Wilde_


	10. Consensual

**Consensual**

Francis and Arthur got drunk together after one particularly stressful world conference. Them getting drunk together was no news, of course – they did that every other month – but what was extraordinary about this particular session was that it led to snogging.

France and England snogging wasn't particularly earth-shattering either. It was unusual, but not unheard of. In truth, the only odd thing about the whole incident was that France forgot it ever happened.

The snogging hadn't led to anything more than a hellish hangover on the following morning, and so, when France woke up in his own bed, alone, only with a splitting headache for company, he couldn't remember kissing England (multiple times) on the previous night. He didn't even recall that he had been drinking, but France was a sensible man and correctly suspected that however he had spent his night, alcohol had been in one way or another involved in it. This being the state of the matter, the only Nation to have witnessed France's snogging session with England was England himself.

France wasn't known for getting absolutely hammered (that was expected from England, really), especially to the point of suffering from a memory loss. And as England had at the time had more pressing matters to occupy himself with than keeping count on the shots the Frenchman was downing, it didn't occur to him that France would not remember.

What France remembered, however, was that there was still two more days of the conference left. He also remembered having a rather violent fight with England on the first conference day, which is why France was genuinely surprised when the Englishman approached him on the Frenchman finally arriving to the conference (three hours late).

England gave him an only slightly gloating look. "You look terrible," he stated the obvious, satisfied. Then his voice changed – barely noticeably, but enough to capture France's attention. "How do you feel?" he asked, as if France's appearance wasn't enough of a tell-tale. He sounded almost concerned.

This quite bewildered France, and the horde of zebras skipping rope with a mammoth inside his head did little to improve his reasoning. As far as he remembered, him and England weren't on the best possible terms, which explained his response: "What's this, has one night suddenly turned us to friends?" he asked.

His question was sincere, therefore he had no idea of how differently Arthur interpreted his words. The Englishman's countenance twisted into something ugly for a fraction of a second, then darkened, and he turned around and left without even the usual 'fuck you'. Under normal circumstances France would have paid more attention to it, but presently his headache efficiently prevented mulling on the matter any further.

It was only in the afternoon that he began to feel more like a man with a hangover and less like an octopus, whose all eight tentacles were being ripped to all eight compass points by eight horses, who were all pissing acid down its throat while simultaneously stomping on its head. And that was when he saw it.

It was barely visible, clearly meant to be covered and out of sight, but France glimpsed it all the same. And what he saw couldn't be unseen any more.

A love-bite. On England's skin. His _neck_. And it was evidently fresh.

France's entire vision flashes red.

It wasn't that they had ever sealed any agreements about their _thing_, about _them_. They'd never talked of seeing each other exclusively. Hell, they'd never talked of _seeing_ each other at all to begin with.

Because all agreements were pointless. Why waste your breath on them when there was no question about England belonging to France, only to France? No one else had the right to touch him, _no one._ (Sometimes France himself didn't have that right, either, when England denied it, but that was beside the point. The point was that if _someone_ had a right to touch England, it was France.)

After seeing what couldn't be unseen, focusing on the ongoing meeting turned from hard to impossible. The love-bite poked from beneath the collar of England's shirt only a little, but oh, a little too much at that. It presented itself so deliciously on the pale skin, so teasingly that France couldn't tear his eyes off it. What was more, there was the fact that the mark was meant to remain hidden, and damn the world if that didn't stir something in the pit of the Frenchman's stomach. If only England knew how extraordinarily well a mark like that complemented his complexion!

A mark left by someone else.

When the conference finally ended for the day, France wasted no time. He sprung up from his seat and in one flash appeared on England's side. He grabbed the Englishman's arm and, before the other man had time to react, dragged him out of the hall and into the first empty room he found. This room happened to be an old, unused office, and when France slammed the door shut after them, England came to his senses.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" he snapped, yanking his arm free from France's grip. On doing so his collar slipped lower to reveal the wicked love-bite in all its glory, and France's eyes were instantly yet unwillingly drawn to it once more. England followed his stare and realised what the Frenchman was looking at, and with an angry jerk he pulled the collar back up to cover the obscene mark.

With great effort France tore his gaze off it and into England's eyes. "Who was it?"

"What?"

"How could you let anyone touch you like that?" France growled.

Instead of answering, England stared at him with a baffled frown on his face. France began to lose his patience.

"I asked you -"

Apparently England's patience was in no better state than the Frenchman's, because France didn't have to ask twice.

"_You!_"

England delivered the answer with such venom that it gave the Frenchman a pause. Then comprehension visited his foggy mind (only briefly though), and he blinked. "Me?"

Silent disdain in the Englishman's eyes confirmed that he had indeed heard it right.

France frowned and tried to think, managing to sum one plus one. "Last night?"

Again, England's silent stare, this time defiant, delivered the affirmative.

_Ah_. Suddenly the love-bite appeared much more appealing.

France extended his arm and made to touch it. "Show me."

But England jerked back, away from his reaching fingers. "Hands off me!"

France withdrew, baffled. "Why?" he asked. "If you let me do _that_ to you yesterday -"

"I didn't let you do anything, you sodding git, you just – I mean we -", England struggled to find the words but visibly failed, resolving instead to glare at France in helpless anger.

For France, however, he had said enough.

Every living person had their morals, their own rules to live their life by. Even the wickedest people had their own rules, however twisted they might be. Those rules were the pillars that support a person's identity, the very core of who they are. Should this person break one of those pillars, they'd be breaking one of the constructions that keep them upright, thus weakening their own character, their true _self_.

The nations had their moral pillars, too, France among the others, and one of his most absolute rules was to never, under any conditions, force his love, himself, on anyone. Doing so would destroy his belief in himself, would destroy who he is. And so, when England implied that he, France, had touched him, England, without his permission, France's inner self froze, then crumbled to little pieces.

"Did I do that to you without your consent?" he asked England, his voice hollow.

England opened his mouth to retort, but then he saw France's eyes, and bit his tongue before he'd spill his hurt out in the worst way possible. He knew of France's morals, and he knew how it felt like to break one's own pillars.

So instead of snapping, he gathered his willpower and asked, "How do you _not_ remember?"

"I've got no idea, but it probably has something to do with my headache," France answered with a humourless smile and added, quieter, "You tell me."

England couldn't bear his earnest look any longer. He averted his eyes and hoped (in vain) to look cool and unaffected. "No," he said.

France wished those defiant eyes would look at him instead of he nearby wall. "No – what?" he breathed.

And then suddenly England's eyes met his – bold, determined, and a little bit vulnerable.

"It was consensual," he said steadily. "And I want you to do it again. And if you _dare_ forget it ever again..."

He left his threat hanging in the air, but for France, he had said enough.

X


	11. Purple

**Purple**

Francis Bonnefoy, the King of Diamonds, is blinding in the sunlight – or, in all honesty, with his golden locks and bright blue eyes that look like two pieces of heaven, he rivals the sun itself. The warm hues of yellow and orange on his royal cape complement well his warm smile and the friendly, inviting air about him. He looks absolutely dashing among all the other guests in the Great Hall of the castle of the Spades, but Arthur despises the sight of his bright clothing.

As the Queen of Spades, Arthur Kirkland stands beside his throne and watches how the King of Spades converses with the King of Diamonds farther, down the hall. Alfred, like Arthur, wears the characteristic purple of Spades. Purple is the colour of kings and queens, and not in the Kingdom of Spades only; purple is the royal colour in all four Kingdoms, although, for certain historical reasons dating back to the time when all four of them were still one, united Kingdom, Kingdoms of Diamonds, Clubs, and Hearts chose other colours to represent their lands and people.

Alfred is animatedly explaining something to the King of Diamonds, but Arthur notices how Francis' eyes slip to him, to Arthur, for a brief moment, and something stirs in his stomach. Alfred is oblivious as always, he doesn't see, doesn't feel the string of electricity that connects his Queen with a foreign King. Instead, he keeps talking and doesn't know that the lips that Arthur yearns to feel on his skin are not his.

Come night, Arthur leaves his personal chamber and follows the path that his feet know by heart. The chamber that has been given to disposal of the King of Diamonds is the same that has been given to him for his every visit. It carries the association with the neighbouring King to the point that even the King of Spades himself has caught himself referring to the rooms using the informally settled name 'Diamond chamber'. It has been so for a long time, hence Arthur doesn't even need to think which way to go.

Francis lets Arthur into his chambers at the first knock and locks the door with such familiarity that Arthur's heart clenches. It's been too long since their last night together, but now that they are finally alone, each takes time to examine the other.

Francis hasn't yet changed from his yellow clothing and Arthur wrinkles his nose in distaste. The King of Diamonds cuts a gorgeous figure in the centre of the purple interior, like a sun in the darkness of cosmos, and Arthur doesn't waste time in tearing his yellow cape off.

Francis laughs, the sound of it warm and so, so longed for. "Careful, it would be hard to explain tomorrow why my mantle is torn in two."

"You'd come up with something, I'm sure. You had no troubles last time."

"Ah, but it was a lucky coincidence that he groom you sent to me was so clumsy. My tailor tears at his hair whenever a visit to Spades is even mentioned."

"I don't care about your tailor," Arthur breathes and stops to admire the lean chest of the King of Diamonds before draping a heavy, purple cape around his shoulders.

It's not the colour yellow itself that Arthur so hates; he only loathes it when it's on Francis. Because when Francis wears yellow, he is the King of Diamonds, for all the eyes to behold. But when he wears purple, it is only for Arthur, _he_ is only for Arthur, no one else. Similarly, that's why Arthur so loves purple; to him, it's not the colour of Spades. It's the colour that, when on Francis, silently whispers, _I'm yours_.

The King of Diamonds will never be seen in anything else than yellow, but when Francis Bonnefoy wears purple, it's him whom Arthur calls his King.

X


	12. Portugal

_Author's note: _Thanks for the positive response! :) I'm sorry though, I'm not taking any new words any more as I still have enough to go with. Also, as I haven't been taking new requests elsewhere, it would be unfair for others if I made an exception here. But I hope you enjoy the series anyway!

**Portugal**

"Oh, Arthur, you are back already."

Arthur Kirkland raised his slightly dazed gaze at his Japanese flatmate. "What? Oh. Yes. Hello Kiku."

Kiku placed his keys on the shelf and stepped out of his shoes, discreetly eyeing his English friend. Arthur was sitting on the sofa, hands hanging limply in his lap, his suitcase beside him, still closed. He looked lost, like he didn't quite know where he was. Perhaps his mind was still in Portugal then, where he had just spent a two-week holiday.

"How was your trip?" Kiku asked politely, terribly confused by the situation; Arthur didn't look like he had just returned from a long, enjoyable holiday under the Mediterranean sun. That is to say, the Englishman _was_ remarkably tanned (or, Kiku noted, more on the sunburnt side), but he lacked the rested look in his eyes and the relaxed air that most people have after their holiday. Instead, he looked absent in a weary way.

"It was fine. Good," Arthur answered. His eyes fell back to his suitcase. "Er, I guess I'll go unpack."

Kiku Honda was an extremely tactful man, and so he understood that whatever had happened in Portugal, it was a story not a soul would hear in the near future. Concluding that some privacy was now in order, he pulled his shoes on again and grabbed the keys. "Yes. I'll go... return Alfred's CDs."

In the safety of his room, Arthur dropped his suitcase on the floor and plopped down beside it. So. He was back. Back in England, his home. Back in his regular life, his nine-to-five job at the office. Back in the London rain and his grey, bleak life.

The heat of sunny Sagres felt like a dream to him now. The long beaches, the friendly locals, the easygoing lifestyle. If he closed his eyes, he could still picture it all crystal clear: the sun, the tiny town Francis had insisted on dragging him to, the Frenchman's laughter as he coaxed the Englishman waist-deep into the ocean... ("It will be fun," he had promised. Arthur should have known better than to trust him.)

Arthur's eyes shot open. Okay, time to unpack. It had been an amazing fortnight, but he was home now and it was time to return to reality. He flipped his suitcase open.

But unpacking proved to be not as easy as it would seem. Once the suitcase was open, Arthur found himself simply staring at its contents, unable to begin. For two weeks this suitcase and its contents had formed all Arthur's belongings. For the past fortnight his entire life had fit in it, and it had been enough for him, more than enough. How on earth could he simply _unpack_ that?

Shaking his head, Arthur grabbed the suitcase and flipped it upside down on the floor. Clothes, toiletry, and a few souvenirs spread before him, but although the suitcase was empty now, it didn't help. No matter how intensely he stared at the pile, all he could see was a life in which the sun shone and Francis peeled oranges for juice on the porch of his house, sending Arthur lazy smiles every now and then and feeding him orange slices whenever the Englishman forgot to pretend he didn't like it.

_Enough_. Arthur slammed his palms on the suitcase. It was time to return to reality, but if _this_ was the said reality, how come it felt like grey slumber and not real at all? He had thought that what he had in England was real – and he had been wrong. This was not the reality Arthur wanted to return to. Portugal was. Francis was.

Reality was when Francis had begun kissing him, and Arthur hadn't resisted, not until the heat had grown unbearable. "I'm leaving tomorrow," he had managed to rasp out.

"Mm..."

But Arthur had been persistent – desperate people always are. "Francis, listen, I'm leaving tomorrow for England, you do realise that we're about to have sex and probably never see each other again, and..." _and that's not what I want._

Francis had halted then. "Ah. I had rather hoped that we'd make love now and still see each other again."

"I-," But Arthur's breath had caught in his throat because Francis had continued kissing him. "Hush, Arthur," the Frenchman had whispered. "Let's not speak of it now."

They had made love that night, after all. But Arthur had left in the morning.

The rain drumming against his window shook the Englishman out of the memory. Fuck. What was he even doing here? He should have prolonged his holiday. He should have stayed in Sagres. Instead, he had tossed the only truly real thing in his life to a trash bin. Two weeks were not enough time to fall in love, but...

Well, it was too late now, anyway.

But then it caught Arthur's eye: a folded piece of paper in the pile of clothes. He picked it up and unfolded it. Inside, there was a string of numbers and, below it, a line written in a cursive hand.

_In case you change your mind. :)_

Later, Arthur couldn't remember what had been going through his head. Suddenly there just was a phone in his hand, and a number dialled in it. His heart throbbed against his ribcage and his tongue felt like sandpaper, but he didn't think twice, if he even thought at all. He pressed the 'call' button.

"Hello?"

X


	13. Window

**Window**

Francis Bonnefoy hummed under his breath as he prepared his diving equipment. It was a quiet day, the shooting had ceased on the previous evening and the fighter aircraft had moved on. The beautiful Greek sun shared its light graciously, reflecting blindingly in the turquoise Sea of Crete; the sun cared nothing about the ongoing war and the fight over Greece.

Much like Francis, to be honest. Well, of course the Frenchman despised the Nazis and stood with his country – but mainly in spirit. War just wasn't his thing. Francis wasn't a coward, but he was a fatalist and besides carefree by nature, and he believed that eventually, things would fall in their right places regardless his input. Meanwhile, he'd rather do his own thing.

That, in this case, meant diving. With a little side quest.

The lone fighter aircraft had been shot down on the previous evening. Theoretically, Francis had been planning to visit the nearby town that day, and besides, he rarely went for lone, single-seat planes to begin with, but he wasn't one to waste such a beautiful opportunity when it was laid before him on a silver plate. The fighter aircraft had fallen exceptionally close to his makeshift hovel, and into shallow waters to boot, so checking it out would be little more than a small morning exercise for him.

The water in the bay was bright and satisfyingly transparent. When Francis looked over the railing of his boat he had no troubles spotting the fallen plane – as though it was in his arm's reach. It wasn't, of course, but Francis estimated the depth to be no more than three metres. The plane seemed to belong to the British; while Francis was hardly an expert of different models of fighter aircraft, he could recognise a Spitfire even in the middle of the night. Too bad, though – Francis liked the British only marginally better than the Germans (that is to say, very little), but what with the war, his sympathies lied entirely on the side of the island neighbour of France.

Francis didn't expect a great loot from such a small, lone plane, but he was in a good mood and a quick dive in the sea would be pleasantly refreshing. And who knew? Many pilots carried unexpectedly valuable trinkets with them. Poor bastards, they rarely remembered that when they fell, they could take nothing with them. Francis didn't criticise, though; all the better for him. What would a dead man do with a golden neck chain? Nothing. Now, Francis, on the other hand, could think of many profitable ways to put such items to use.

Once his oxygen tank and a little tool bag were in check, the Frenchman dropped into the water, did a small warm-up dive before diving again, this time for real.

The salty water caressed pleasantly his bare skin – not cold, but refreshing – and in a few experienced movements, Francis approached the Spitfire from its rear. The cause of the unfortunate dive was plain in view: the rear had been turned into a sieve in the firing and the left wing was damaged as well, though it had probably broken on the aircraft hitting the sea.

Francis' tactic was simple: he'd break the window of the cabin and let it fill with water, after which he'd simply make a hole big enough for himself and check the pilot's pockets and bags. He didn't particularly enjoy rummaging through dead people's personal belongings, but he wasn't terribly put off by it, either, and, well – a man's got to make his living.

He swam around the fighter aircraft to the front and looked through the window.

The pilot slept.

Or so Francis would have supposed, had the plane not rested on the bottom of the sea since the previous evening. A silly thought, and completely useless one at such a moment. The Frenchman shook his head and began looking for any possible cracks on the glass to ease his work. He soon found one and prepared his chisel, but then halted. Something felt oddly out of place. Francis looked at the pilot again.

He was young. Judging by the looks, Francis wouldn't give him more than twenty-two years, perhaps twenty-four if he felt generous. The pilot's hair was a messy blond heap, and his equally blond eyebrows were unusually thick. It looked like the man was too thin for his uniform, but it might have been just water playing its tricks. There was a Union Jack proudly embroidered on his chest.

But what truly captured the Frenchman's attention was the pilot's face, or rather, his expression. His eyes were closed, slightly covered with his messy bangs, and his thin lips formed a nonchalant line. Like that, slightly slumped in his seat, he truly looked like he was merely sleeping, so oblivious to the world, so serene. Not a trace of fear or pain could be tracked on his face, not one mark of war. There weren't any visible injuries on him to indicate the primary cause of his death.

Usually, when Francis looted the fallen planes, the cause of the pilots' deaths was plain in view: a bleeding temple, a bullet hole in chest, a broken neck. Some faces were twisted in agony, some faces stared emptily into eternity, some faces... were no more. But this. This calm face of a young man who, as far as you knew, could open his eyes at any moment and blink at you drowsily. Unlike the other dead faces, this one was not expressionless – simply peaceful.

Francis couldn't tear his eyes off the sleeping – dead – pilot despite all his attempts. The Englishman looked strangely alive, and in an instant Francis was filled with vivid images of this man flying high, going up up up in the sky, then diving through the clouds and laughing out loud of sheer joy. Maybe he had even done so not so long ago – before suddenly encountering German fighter aircraft.

For some reason, the thought shocked Francis. Only twenty-four hours earlier this young pilot was up in the air, his heart still following a steady rhythm, thoughts flowing in and out of his head, his eyes looking into horizon.

His eyes. Suddenly Francis was struck by the desire to see his _eyes_.

How had this pilot died? Had it happened when his Spitfire had been hit? Had he been dead already when his aircraft hit the waves? Or had he suffered a slow, suffocating death under the water, unable to break free? The dreadful thought struck Francis. What if the pilot had still been alive when his plane had sunk? What if he had been fighting for his life while Francis, watching from his hideout not far away, only thought of a possible loot? What if Francis might have been actually able to _save_ him?

But no. Francis had seen many a suffocated body, and none of them had looked even remotely as serene as this one. This pilot had already been dead when he had crashed into the sea.

Or merely unconscious.

Francis pressed his forehead against the window. _Could_ he have saved this man? Could he, had he acted immediately on the evening before, be now looking into the eyes of this Englishman, and know what colour they were?

He made as if to touch the motionless pilot, but the glass put a stop to his unconscious movement. It efficiently closed the young man into his endless dream, into the eternity that the Frenchman could not see.

Francis pushed himself away from the window. With a few strong kicks, he surfaced back into his own world, back into the burning sunlight and a warm breeze, shaken and shattered inside. He returned to his hovel, sat in the sand, and wept.

Francis Bonnefoy had never been shocked by death. Death happened, and in the course of the past few months he had sought it out purposefully. No, what now shook Francis so violently was that through that window, he had seen _life_.

X


	14. Tenderness

**Tenderness**

If you asked England what he most loves in France, you'd be making three presumptions.

One: England loves France.

Two: England loves not one, but many aspects of France.

Three: England will admit it out loud.

While the two first presumptions would hit the bull's eye directly, the third one would turn out to be a critical miss and therefore result in you failing miserably at a most simple task, were this a tabletop role-playing game. However, as this is not a tabletop role-playing game, or any role-playing game at all, the only thing that would follow your incorrect presumption would be England calmly stirring his tea and taking a nonchalant sip, asking in a disinterested voice, "Love France? Wherever have you got that idea from?"

He might also proceed to shooting your knee if you kept on asking, but other than that, he wouldn't let on any hints regarding his loves and not-loves.

So, regrettable as it is, you wouldn't receive an answer to your question. However, it might console you that inside his head, where you have no entrance, England would be going through his list of things that he loves in France, and then move on to the list of things that he _most_ loves in France, and, later in the night when no one, including himself, could never hear him, he would remember France and his history, and whisper, "Tenderness."

But remember, you heard none of this from me! An adventurer like me quite needs her knees still.

X


	15. Deception

**Deception**

Alfred discovers the rose by accident. He finds it in an old dresser in the storage room that he's helping Arthur to clean. Arthur has just existed the room to fetch some water for them, so Alfred is alone when he stumbles upon a locked dresser with no key in sight. As the Englishman isn't in the room to either stop him or provide a key, in Alfred's world view the only natural solution is to break the lock and see what's inside. The dresser looks ancient anyway, and not in a complementary way.

So Alfred yanks the handle once, twice, and thus manages to pull the drawer open inflicting only a minor crack in the wood; the lock gives in surprisingly easily.

He has just about three seconds to look inside the drawer before he hears steps and notices Arthur halting in the doorway. Alfred opens his mouth to ask why on _earth_ is Arthur hiding a dry rose in an old dresser, but suddenly a whirlwind hits him and throws him on his back, causing him to knock his head against the floor. "Ow!" he cries out, more of a habit than of real pain, and sits up to find the source of the hurricane.

He doesn't find one, but instead he sees Arthur, standing by the dresser and gently cradling in his arms the small glass case containing the rose.

"Huh?" he asks, baffled, slowly realising that the whirlwind which had knocked him down was his friend Arthur.

Arthur doesn't reply immediately. Slowly he turns his eyes at Alfred, and the American marks with a small shiver that Arthur's normally forest-green eyes now burn in poisonous emerald flames. "Arthur, what?" Alfred manages through his lips, even more confused and now a bit crept out too. He has never seen such a look on his friend's face before.

"I told you," Arthur hisses through his teeth in response, "I specifically forbade you to touch anything that is locked."

Arthur's voice is cold and bloodthirsty, and a shiver runs down Alfred's spine. "Man, cool down. I'm sorry, okay? No harm done."

The Englishman's acid stare nearly melts Alfred on the spot. Since when has Arthur – the argyle-vest-Arthur, Artie-the-thread-and-the-needle-man, the _boring_ Arthur – had such a predatory look in his eyes?

"Do you have any idea," Arthur hisses, "of how fragile this rose is?"

Alfred rolls his eyes. "It's just a dead flower, what's the big deal?" he defends himself. "Besides, it's in a box of glass." Then his own words give him a pause and he frowns. "A box of glass. Arty, why do you have a _dead __plant_in a glass box?"

To Alfred's (secret) relief, all the anger on Arthur's face washes away, giving way to a sullen look that's soothingly familiar to the American. "None of your bloody business," the Englishman mutters and turns his eyes back to the rose. It doesn't miss Alfred how gently and sadly Arthur beholds the flower, how protectively he wraps his arms around its glass case, and in an instant his curiosity is roused; no one in their right mind would cherish a withered flower with such a look in their eyes, not unless it held some hidden, important meaning.

"So what's the story?" he asks bluntly.

Arthur gives him a glare. This time it's his usual, harmless scowl – only heavily laced with unspoken grief, making him suddenly look older that time itself.

"There's no story," Arthur lies through his teeth. Alfred rolls his eyes in response. "Come on, chill," he utters. "I'm not blind, you know. To me it looks like it's time for you to release some old grudges."

"'Tis not about grudges," Arthur mutters quietly, staring at the rose again.

"What then?" Alfred asks impatiently, because now that Arthur acts normal again, Alfred finds him a bit too melodramatic with all the pained gazes and denial.

To his surprise, Arthur lowers himself down on the floor right next to him and, after a moment or two of silence, tells him without further harping.

"It's the typical old tale, actually," the Englishman utters dryly. "You know, the one where you begin to trust someone enough to tell him your biggest secret. Where you finally believe that he loves you for who you are. And you continue trusting and believing and clinging to his promise of return even after he's left, even when the time just keeps passing by and you _know_ that he's gone for good." Arthur's voice cracks, but he masks it with a pathetic faked cough.

Alfred stares at him, muted. Shit, that's not what he expected. He had thought that maybe it was about Arthur's first crush or something silly, but not something that appears to still remain a sore spot.

"When did this happen?" he asks, trying to put the pieces together.

"Long time ago," Arthur elusively answers. "No one you know, if that's what you're wondering. Was before I moved here."

Alfred frowns. Arthur moved to Boston almost seven years ago, and that's how long Alfred has known him, too. Wow, this guy definitely didn't forget easily.

"Let me guess, he was the one who gave you the rose?"

"He."

"And you still keep it?"

Arthur merely shrugs one shoulder. "He said he would return," he mumbles.

"Dude," Alfred says, uncharacteristically grave. "Arty. That can't be healthy. That's _not_ healthy. You've got to let go at some point, you do realise that, right? I mean, I get it, he hurt you – but clinging to the past will prevent you from healing."

"It's late," Arthur abruptly utters, completely off-topic, and pushes himself up, the case with the rose still in his hand. "You'd better go."

"But -"

"Goodnight, Alfred. Thanks for the help, I'll see you later."

"Arty -"

Arthur's eyes lock with Alfred's, and suddenly the American finds it exceedingly hard to resist the command of that heavy emerald gaze. "Fine," he huffs. "See you later. But don't think you're off the hook. You need to talk about this."

"Goodnight, Alfred," Arthur repeats, and sees the American to the door.

Once Alfred is gone, Arthur sits down by his kitchen window and carefully opens the glass case that he never let down from his hands since Alfred found it. He touches the withered rose with his fingers, careful not to destroy it, and gently picks it up. The rose is much older than Alfred could even imagine, much more fragile. It's a fortune that the American didn't accidentally destroy it before Arthur showed up.

The last rays of sun disappear behind the horizon, and Arthur lifts his eyes to look out of the window at the serene, gradually darkening summer sky. As the light finally fades from the world, he feels within his bones the familiar sensation of power that the night always brings along, and lets his fangs draw out into their natural state. His sharp eyes fall back on the rose in his hands, and involuntarily the painful yet treasured memories from two centuries ago flood his mind – memories of Francis.

Of course, Alfred is right, and Arthur knows it. So long as he clings to Francis' memory, to the rose that the Frenchman gave him as a token of his love, so long will the pain of betrayal ache in his heart. But he cannot let go, doesn't want to let go, not Francis.

_He said he would return._

X


	16. Lost

**Lost**

The grocery store began closing its doors for the night just when Arthur stepped out of it and noticed the man.

The man, a tall figure with a wavy, blond hair, stood on the street not far from the store, and did absolutely nothing worthy of notice. Well, he was wearing his Halloween costume although there were still a couple of days until the actual Halloween – he had a white tailcoat with purple ornaments, and there was a small lantern attached to his belt – so he was probably heading to an early party, but other that that, he just stood there on the street, leaning against his neat cane and looking like he was waiting for someone.

Whatever the man's real reason to stand outside a grocery store was, it was none of Arthur's business, and so he shrugged and headed home, where his cat and an unfinished essay awaited him. He turned to cross the street.

"Wait!"

Arthur halted and looked back. The man in the white tailcoat had left his place and now approached him, waving his hand. "Wait!" he called again.

Arthur glanced around. The area was nearly empty of people, save for an elderly man who had decided to walk his dog at ten in the evening, and even cars were scarce. The handles of the plastic bag in Arthur's hand were slowly but surely sinking into the skin of his right palm and would no doubt cut the circulation from his fingers before long. Arthur moved the bag to his left hand and waited.

The dressed man had now reached him and smiled apologetically. "I'm terribly sorry, but I seem to be lost," he said. His speech was noticeably accented – French, Arthur concluded.

"Oh. Er, right, can I help then?"

"If it weren't too much trouble," the man smiled. His blue eyes twinkled.

"Well then, where is it you should be?"

"I understand that there is a graveyard nearby?"

Arthur lifted his brows. "A graveyard?"

"Yes, a graveyard. Sadly, I've been absent from this town for too long a time, much has changed, and I can't find my way back."

"I see. Well, it's fairly easy to find. Just follow this street until the first traffic lights and turn left there. It shouldn't take more than fifteen minutes. Actually..." Arthur's voice faded. Actually, his flat was in the same direction, and choosing the route past the graveyard wouldn't lengthen his way, although it wasn't the one he usually took. The question was, was he really willing to share his way with a random person? The again, if Arthur didn't want to walk with the man, he would have to take a detour back home. Arthur moved the bag back in his right hand.

"Actually what?" the man asked.

"Actually... I'm heading to partly same direction, so we can go together if you'd like."

The man's face lightened up. "That would be great. My name is Francis."

"Arthur," Arthur said. It would only take fifteen minutes, if even that.

Generally, Arthur didn't like the forced small talk with strangers, but he had to admit that after the initial awkwardness, sharing the way with Francis wasn't that bad. Despite being French, Francis' presence wasn't imposing; he didn't bomb Arthur with annoying innuendos or try to feel him up under any pretence (as Arthur imagined Frenchmen would do, his experience with them being limited as it was). Francis did hum something under his breath, though, but stopped that soon enough, and by that time Arthur felt comfortable enough for unforced small talk.

"Have you taken an early start for Halloween?" he asked.

"I'm afraid I must stand out in this attire," Francis answered with light laughter.

"You could day so," Arthur admitted with a small smile of his own. He didn't dare ask why Francis had dressed up like that if his intention was to merely visit a graveyard, unless he was heading somewhere else afterwards... Or then the party was _at_ the graveyard and had a touch of occultism, in which case Arthur might or mightn't be curious to see what was up. The deadline of his essay wasn't _that_ close yet.

They turned left from the traffic lights. Arthur was beginning to regret buying that extra carton of juice.

"Arthur," Francis said suddenly, when several minutes of unstrained silence had passed. "Do you believe in love on the first glance?"

"What?" All right, now Francis was living up to Arthur's stereotypes about the French. "No, that is to say, I haven't given it much thought." He glanced warily at his companion. "Why?"

"What about soul mates?" Francis ignored his question.

Arthur snorted. "Not at all."

"Why so?"

"Why? It's total rubbish! There are seven billion people in this world, and you'd have me believe that only one of them could be my 'one true love'? The entire concept is ridiculous."

Francis clicked his tongue. "How unromantic."

"I don't see anything romantic in it. If the 'soul mate' rubbish was true, then people would wander through their lives with very little chance of meeting their designated one among the millions and millions of strangers."

"That's the tragedy," Francis agreed. Arthur cast a curious glance at him. "Do _you_ believe in soul mates then?"

"No," the Frenchman answered easily. "Not like that, anyway. But I do believe that sometimes... love sticks. Despite everything, despite life and death and time."

All right, perhaps Francis' visit at the graveyard was of more personal nature than having an occult-themed Halloween party there.

"Right," Arthur said, but fortunately, they were reaching the graveyard. "So, here we are."

They stopped at the entrance.

"Marvellous." Francis smiled. "Thank you, Arthur."

"No problem." But Arthur didn't begin walking away. He shifted his weight from one leg to another and moved the plastic bag to his left hand.

Francis tilted his head, smiling in a way that made Arthur uncomfortable in a rather... comfortable way.

"You shouldn't have bought so many groceries," Francis said and turned to walk through the gates, still speaking. "What did you even buy?"

Francis was already walking away, so Arthur had to follow if he wanted to avoid being rude and leave without answering the other one's question. He pretended to himself to be annoyed by it. "Er, milk," he said, hurrying after the Frenchman. "Juice." That damned extra carton. "Flour. Bread."

Francis laughed, deeply and genuinely, not even looking at him. "Why did you even buy flour? You know you can't bake."

Arthur furrowed his brows, deeply offended. "I can, too! Well, I practise, so – Wait. How do you – why did you say that I can't bake?"

"It's the truth, isn't it?" Francis asked with a wink.

"Well, for the moment, yes, but that's not the point!"

Francis grinned at him and Arthur very nearly pouted, feeling a little dumb. "You are just messing with me."

"I'm afraid I am,"Francis admitted rather smugly. "Forgive me. Old habits die hard."

Arthur didn't bother asking what he meant, as the answer would probably be even more cryptic than the previous one, anyway.

The graveyard was rather big, but now Francis seemed to know where he was going. The main paths, one of which they were following, were well illuminated, and there were candles on some graves along the way. After a while Francis turned to the older part of the cemetery, where, as far as Arthur knew, the oldest graves dated back to the 18th century.

In spite of his interest in mysteries, Arthur was beginning to grow a little restless. It was late, dark, and his damned groceries were heavy, he had an essay to finish and a cat to feed, and here he was, following a random Frenchman to an old cemetery?

"Are you looking for a specific grave?" he asked Francis, mostly to break the silence.

"Yes." But Francis didn't elaborate.

"Right," Arthur muttered and wondered if he could just leave his bag there and pick it up on his way back.

As a rule, the further in the past the graves dated, the bigger and more ornamental they were – with a few exceptions. Old graves of influential families had impressive tombstones with statues of angels, doves, and the deceased family members, but there were also humble headstones, little more than a flat rock on the ground with a name and the dates of birth and passing.

When Francis stopped, it was in front of a most simple gravestone. Beside it was another of the same kind.

He stood motionlessly and stared down at them for a while. Arthur had stopped a little further away; the quiet, gloomy air of the cemetery had got to him, and Francis' easy cheerfulness seemed to have given way to melancholy – which was more than natural in a place like that. Arthur felt like an intruder among all those graves and dark paths – the old part of the cemetery was not illuminated as well as the newer one – and he didn't know how to behave himself now that they had reached their destination. It was clearly an emotional moment for Francis, but Arthur, what was _he_ doing there?

Finally Francis raised his eyes from the tombstones and gave Arthur a small smile. "Don't worry," he said, as if sensing the Englishman's unease. "Come here."

Arthur took a few steps to stand beside Francis and almost unwillingly glanced down at the tombstones. It was too dark for him to distinguish the words.

Francis crouched, and Arthur mimicked the motion. He still couldn't make out the names – the stones were weather-worn – but he did see the year: 1789.

The Frenchman brushed one of the stones with his fingers and smiled a little sadly. "It's been ages since I was here," he said softly.

"Were these people your forefathers?" Arthur asked carefully.

"No." Francis uttered a chuckle. "No. I asked you about soul mates because of him."

Arthur squinted, scrutinising the graves once more, getting a little frustrated for not being able to decipher old, barely visible words.

"That was his wife." Francis pointed to the grave beside the first one. "He didn't love her, though. He genuinely liked her and enjoyed her company, but he didn't love her. She must have known, but that was often the way in those times. She mourned for him for a long time when he passed."

"So... why are you here? If they are not your ancient relatives, why would you want to come?"

"I made a promise," Francis said and fumbled with the little chain that held the lantern to his belt. He released the lantern and held it up for Arthur to see. "Do you see the fire?"

"Of course I see the bloody fire."

"It's not as redundant as you think." Francis carefully opened the lantern and smiled to Arthur. "Farewell, Arthur. Thank you for bringing me here, you have no idea how long I've been searching."

"Er..."

Arthur was trying to wrap his mind around Francis' words when the Frenchman took out the candle from the lantern... except that there was no candle. Only the flame. Arthur closed his eyes and firmly shook his head, but what he saw didn't change – Francis was still cradling a pure _flame_ in his palms.

"What the _hell_ -" Arthur began, but Francis silenced him with a smile. "No need to yell, Arthur. It's just love that sticks." He winked. "It might not happen at the first glance, but it sticks." And then he blew at the flame, until it flickered and died.

Arthur blinked. The handles of his plastic bag were already painfully cutting into his palm even though he had barely put his foot out of the doors of the grocery store. The fucking carton of juice, he had _known_ he shouldn't have taken it. Well, too late for regrets now – Arthur shrugged and headed home.

"Wait," someone shouted behind his back.

Arthur halted and frowned. Hadn't he already... But no, of course he hadn't. He turned around.

A man with a wavy, blond hair approached him across the street, dragging a rather impressive piece of luggage behind him. "Wait," he called again.

Arthur moved the bag to his left hand and waited.

The man reached him, slightly out of breath. He brushed his long lock off his face and smiled at Arthur, blue eyes twinkling. "Good evening," he said in a clearly French accent. "I'm terribly sorry to bother you, but I seem to be lost."

Arthur stared at him. He knew that he was supposed to answer something, but this, this had happened before, hadn't it? A blue-eyed man, lost... _Rubbish, _the sensible part of his brain sneered at him. _Now say something before he thinks you're mute._

"Is anything the matter?" the blond man asked, tilting his head to the side.

"Oh. No." Arthur shook his head, shedding off the funny feeling. "Just a deja vu, is all."

"I see," the man said. "I need to find this address -" He showed Arthur a piece of paper, "But there aren't even any taxis here and the battery of my phone is dead so I can't call my friend who invited me."

Arthur took a look at the address. "This is in my neighbourhood," he said after a short contemplation. "It's not far from here. We can walk together if you'd like."

The man's face lightened up. "That would be great. My name is Francis, by the way. Pleased to meet you."

_It might not happen at the first glance, but it sticks. _The words flashed somewhere in Arthur's memory, but he forgot them as quickly as they came.

"Arthur," he said and smiled.

X


	17. Nostalgia

_Author's note: _First, about the story: It's entirely based on real events, so to speak. I used to work at a museum not so long ago, and I would like to thank all the museum visitors for providing me with the material for this drabble. Every comment that France and England say about the museum they visit, I had to listen from day to day at mine – and always from adults.

Second, this is the last 'drabble' in the In One Word (FrUK Drabble Thing) series. I'm so relieved and happy to finally deliver this for you! When I began this project (on a whim, like I always do), I had no idea how laborious it would be. That's my own fault, of course, for not sticking with the actual definition of a drabble (which is 100 words, if I'm not mistaken), but nonetheless, this was really fun. Thanks for all who took part in this!

**Nostalgia**

France crossed his arms and looked at the castle in an unimpressed manner. "So this is what you wanted to show me? A castle?"

England smacked his shoulder. "Yes, a castle. You don't have to look so bloody bored before we've even got out of the car."

"Park quickly, then, I'm not sure how long I can pretend."

England huffed, but managed to resist the urge to do the opposite and parked the vehicle. France kept his word – he refrained from whining until they had climbed out of it. "I've seen dozens of castles in my lifetime," he complained. "And anyway, why visit one of yours? If you suddenly crave for history so much, castles at my place are much more impressive than yours. You learnt from me how to build them."

"Shut up. You said yourself this morning that you felt 'nostalgic', so this was your idea to begin with. Besides, this castle has been recently renovated and opened to serve as a public museum, and I'm curious to see how they managed."

"Well, it has been a while since we've reminisced in an old castle like this," France admitted.

"I spent two nights here back in the 14th century," England told as they walked across the lawn and to the entrance. "One of my horses had -"

"Excuse me, Sirs."

England cut his narrative and turned around. "Huh?"

A young woman with pigtails was sticking her head out of a ticket booth, past which the two Nations had walked. "I'm sorry, but you need to buy a ticket," the woman explained apologetically.

"Tickets? Oh, right." Sighing a little exasperatedly, England returned to the booth, waving France off when the Frenchman was fishing for his wallet. "There you go," he said to the woman and passed to her the required money, adding, "Funny to be paying for an entrance to the same castle in which I once was an honoured guest."

The girl smiled but didn't comment, handing to England two tickets. "Welcome," she only said.

The Nations entered the castle. It had been renovated to look as if it was still inhabited like in the 14th century, when it had been built. The job had been done surprisingly well; the interior didn't look like it had been taken from a cheap, second-rate film, and while some areas were closed from the public with the help of ropes, everything had been arranged smartly without affecting visibility.

Some people were gathering in the hall, and France pointed at them with his thumb. "Should we attend the guided tour?"

England shrugged. "Why bother, we know everything anyway, and better than they ever could."

"That's why I was sure you'd like to attend," France commented dryly. "You're such a smartarse that I bet you would have enjoyed pointing everything out to the guide and taking over the entire tour."

"Shut it. Like you're any better."

"I do it with more tact."

"Bollocks. You – Oh, look! I had a shield just like that in Calais."

France wrinkled his nose at the memory of the battle. "Little good it did to you. If I'm not mistaken you got a stray arrow in your arm."

"We still won, though," England smirked.

France mirrored the self-satisfied smile. "Winning a battle isn't winning the entire war – which was won by me in the end."

"Yeah, well that one time. But remember -"

"England." France held up his hands. "Let us not start another war, verbal or otherwise. It's Sunday. Let's save our fights for the world meetings."

England crossed his arms, but agreed. "Fine. Let's move on."

They entered a room that was furnished to demonstrate a typical private chamber of nobility. Most of the furniture and items on display were replicas of the originals, but some truly dated back to the 14th century. One of such items drew England's attention. "Look," he said to France and pointed at an old sword that was hanging from the wall. "Look at the handle. Do you remember when back in the day it was fashionable to make those silly lion-shaped hilts?"

France laughed. "Oh yes, and then they wondered why their swords were poorly balanced when there was a chunk of solid metal weighting on the other end." He shook his head. "Not that they ever intended to fight with them. These swords were for little more than decorative purposes."

"I had got myself one, too, England admitted and peered at the sword. "I had forgotten how ugly it actually looked." He stretched his arm over the rope that was prohibiting the visitors to go further, and managed to reach the handle of the sword. Carefully he lifted it from the hooks in the wall, deliberately ignoring the Do Not Touch sign.

"What a rebel," France said, calmly observing his actions. "You're almost like in the 70's."

"Bollocks. I'm sure I still have my old sword stored up somewhere, and if I can touch it without it breaking, surely it won't hurt anyone if we look a bit closer here."

"Show me."

"Ahem." A polite cough made both men jump and guiltily spin around. One of the museum attendants was standing at the door and doing an exceedingly poor job at hiding his annoyance. "I'm sorry, but the objects on display are not to be touched." He stepped forward and took the sword from France's hands.

"Sorry," England said. "We didn't know."

The attendant looked at him, unimpressed. "That's why we have put these signs here," he said and pointed at the one that England had ignored.

"Whoops," France said and faked a laughter. "We didn't notice it. Pardon, _monsieur_."

"Of course."

"We were just going," England declared and walked out of the room with France at his heels. "What a nitpicker," he muttered as soon as they were back in the hall and continuing the tour. "There's the next chamber."

"Let's skip it. It's probably the same as the previous one. Besides, we know how this all looked before, anyway."

"Sure." England shrugged. Then his face lit up. "Oh! Come, I know a place you'd like to see for sure!"

"What place?"

"The kitchens."

France rolled his eyes. "While we both know that I'm the master of the art of cooking, it doesn't mean that I spent all my time in the kitchens during the Middle Ages."

England mirrored his gesture. "Of course not. But this castle was one of the firsts to implement the new type of flues that we got from your place. If I recall correctly, the floor plan is quite interesting."

"Fine, lead the way."

"Right, I don't quite remember... We need to take the stairs down, I'm pretty sure I'll find it from there."

It didn't take them long to find the stairs – but, alas, they, too, were closed from public with a fence. England huffed. "This again."

"If you know the way, we can hop over the fence while no one's looking."

"Yeah. Wait, there's that nitpicker from before! Act innocent!"

And true, the same museum attendant who had caught them with the sword was approaching them across the hall. First it looked like he would pass them without any ado, but then he stopped, as if something in England and France's innocent smiles was disturbing him.

"That part of the castle is closed," he said politely.

"Yes, we know," England replied casually.

The attendant smiled sweetly. "Of course. I just thought that I'd point it out just in case you didn't notice the fence."

France actually snickered at that, and England shot him a glare. "Thank you," he said with finality.

But the attendant didn't walk away. "This is my post for the following hour," he explained after a few minutes of England sending him glares. "Oh, perhaps you'd like me to take a photograph of you two here?"

"We don't have a camera," France smiled, looking genuinely amused. He grabbed England's hand and dragged him after him. "Let's go, Eng- Arthur. We have yet a lot to see!"

Once the attendant was once again left behind, England crossed his arm. "I don't get it why they make such a big scene of everything," he grumbled. "Sure, I understand that they can't let all the visitors to unfixed parts of the castle, but it would not hurt anyone if only we had a look! Besides, we've walked these halls when they had just been build!"

"Let them have their dignity," France placated him. "They aren't immortal as we are, their life is fleeting, so of course they don't see the bigger picture. If their purpose in life is to guard these old trinkets and halls like jealous dragons, so be it. Besides, as you've said, we know how all this used to be in the past, anyway." He glanced at his watch. "Enough of nostalgia. Lunch?"

X


End file.
